


Who's The Man?

by haldolhs



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Canon Compliant, Episode: s07e19 Hollywood A.D., F/M, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 21:49:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20365639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haldolhs/pseuds/haldolhs
Summary: After the movie credits roll, A.P Walter Skinner takes some time to revel in his role as a bigshot Hollywood producer, and he discovers Mulder and Scully have been doing a little reveling of their own.





	Who's The Man?

Sometime after three in the morning I manage to slip out from between the blonde and the brunette. They curl up together like little kittens as I fumble my way back into the monkey suit I donned for last night’s festivities. It smells like stale smoke and Chanel No. 5, and I grin like the damned Cheshire Cat. 

I am on top of the world. Still. I should be nursing a hangover the size of Kilimanjaro and groping for the damned Ben Gay considering the acrobatics these lovely ladies put me through just a few short hours ago, but I’m feeling zero pain. In fact, if I didn’t have a plane to catch, I’d pounce on the both of them and rouse them into another go.

Damn, they look spent. Who’s the man? I’m the man, baby. That’s right. I’m. The. Man. Associate Producer Walter “Skinman” Skinner, portrayed on the silver screen last night by a considerably less virile Richard Gere. I’m the man who gets the big gun, the big save, and the stunning redhead.

My jacket slung over my shoulder in a most dashing and dapper manner, I grin all the way back to my room. 

The sight of my suitcase setting at the foot of the bed is a mood dampener. A few short hours from now, it’s back to reality for the Skinman. A.P. Skinner reverts to A.D. Skinner, joyless stress-a-holic who gets his ass handed to him on a plate at least once every other afternoon, courtesy, more often than not, of one Special Agent Fox Fucking Mulder, who has a penchant for brassing off the Brass.

It was Mulder who was brassed off last night, though. The way he flew out of his seat and yelled, “That’s it! I just can’t take anymore, Scully!” and then stormed out of the theater like a kid who’d just had his best ball taken away. And all because screen Scully professed her love for me. 

It would have been pretty damned funny, except I felt a little sorry for him. And more than a little embarrassed for him, too. The guy tends to be the root of the biggest thorns in my ass, but I like him. I respect him . . . although I’d guess he wasn’t feeling either liked or respected last night.

I look at the door to the adjoining room and wonder if he’s awake on the other side, brooding. Knowing Mulder, the chances are likely, even if Scully found him after the premier and managed to force some happy into him on the government dime.

What the guy really needs is a decent lay.

Correction. What Mulder really needs is someone to kick his brain out of his ass and encourage him to confess his all-too-apparent love for his spitfire of a partner, already.

I grin again, ‘cause it just so happens Studman A.P. Skinner is in a brain-out-of-Mulder’s-ass kickin’ mood. And seeing as protocol-chained Bossman A.D. Skinner waits oblivious an entire continent away, there’s no time like the present.

In true ass-kicking fashion, I pull open the adjoining door, barge into his dimly-lit room, catch my ankle in a tangle of clothing, and go sprawling. Somehow, I manage to catch my fall an inch before I impale myself on a black, high-heeled shoe.

What the?

“Mmm . . . Mulder . . .” the soft, sleepy voice is heart-stoppingly familiar.

Why in the Hell would Scully change rooms with Mulder? Maybe I can just crawl back through the door . . .

“Shh. I’m right here. Sleep.” His voice is a low purr I could have happily died without ever hearing. And, unlike Scully, Mulder is wide awake. Shit. And also . . . Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Prompted by her soft, answering sigh and the rustle of sheets, I move to crawl back through the door even though I’m caught. I’m already humiliated, so why the Hell not?

His voice is barely a whisper. “Do something for you, Skinner?”

Who’s the man? Who’s the absolutely mortified man? Who’s the absolutely mortified man forcing himself to his feet when he wishes he could sink straight through the floor? That’d be me.

Although he’s made sure she’s not exposed, they’re both obviously naked beneath the thin sheet. Scully is snuggled up against him, her arm curled around his waist, her head nestled on the crook of his shoulder. Reluctantly, I force my wary gaze to the top of this touching scene of post coital exhaustion, and when I meet his eyes, Mulder gives me the very same Cheshire Cat grin I’ve been sporting most of the night.

God love it, I shrug and shoot the grin right back at him. Then I give him a big thumbs up, and haul my ass back into my own room.

I hear his light chuckle as I ease the door closed behind me. At the sound, I’m half tempted to go back in and make sure it was really Mulder in that bed. Unabashed grin? No tension at having been caught with his naked partner draped over him? Lighthearted chuckle? It’s like invasion of the body snatchers. An X-File, for sure.

It hits me that in a few short hours, I’ll escort Mulder back to that dank, basement office in the Hoover building where the X-Files sit waiting to consume him, and I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever again see my friend as relaxed and happy as he is right now.

All of a sudden, I feel achy. Hung-over. Old. 

Screw this noise. I whip out my cell, call the airline, and reschedule our flights back to D.C. for the day after tomorrow. 

That done, I carefully ease the adjoining door open, peek my head back into the next room, and whisper, “Mulder?”

A light groan, “yeah?”

“Sleep in. Lunch about one-ish?”

“Flight?”

“Canceled. Lunch?”

“Sure. Thanks, Skinman.” 

“Don’t call me Skinman.” I grin, and then I pull the door closed once more. 

Turning, I glance at my untouched bed and decide I don’t need it. What I need is a little hair of the dog, and then a good toss back in the middle of a feisty kitten sandwich.

Who’s the man? A.P. Walter “Skinman” Skinner’s the man. Catch your act later. I’m outtie.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a million years ago and posted it to fanfic.net, where the original version still sits moldering like a forgotten X-File in a dank basement office. I hope you enjoyed this face-lifted version. It's a tad prettier.


End file.
